


Past, Present and Future

by starprise_entership



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: M/M, back at it again with the vampire/were-lizard au, more snippets i suppose, mostly julian’s pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-25 21:46:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14387760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starprise_entership/pseuds/starprise_entership
Summary: Julian’s life takes a very unexpected turn when his lifeline crosses paths with the supernatural realm.





	1. Past

He leaves the bar, swaying on his feet.

“The air’s lovely tonight, i-isn’t it, Marilyn?” His accent carries a heavier lilt from the alcohol he’s been drinking all night.

The dark-haired woman by his side snorts, and drags one of his arms across her shoulders and allows him to lean against her to steady himself. “It’s Kaitlyn. You’ve got it wrong again.”

“No, it’s _definitely_ Marilyn. Definitely Marilyn.” He slurs, pointing at the gold chain hanging around her neck. “Look, it says there. On your necklace.”

She swats away his hand. “Marilyn, Kaitlyn, whatever. That doesn’t matter. I just picked it because it looked nice.”

He gives a weak, drunken laugh. “But why pick a name that isn’t yours?”

“I tend to pick and choose things that look nice.” She explains. “You, for example.”

“ _Me_?” He sputters, almost delighted. “That’s too kind of you.”

“You’re too alluring to stand, Julian,” She coos, dragging him out of the street lamp’s gaze and into a side alley. “You’re irresistible.”

“Well, I don’t think I’m normally called that, but thank you.” He says, and then she moves in on him with a cheeky peck on the lips that makes his heart flutter and his head spin. He doesn’t have time to process anything when she presses up further against him and her hand tucks itself into the front pocket of his jeans.

“Can’t this wait?” He pleads. “At least until we get to my apartment? I can _barely_ stand.”

“Maybe,” she teases, and crashes her lips against his again and this time she doesn’t let go. She probes and invades, claiming what she knows to be hers. But even through the amber-coloured haze of the alcohol, he knows something’s amiss. His weak attempts at pleading come out as muffled screams against the velvet of her lips and his wrists are held tight to the cold brick wall as her jeweled fingernails dig like vices.

And in his fear-fuelled drunken stupor, his jaw clenches as he bites down and he feels teeth sinking into soft, tender flesh.

“You bit me!” She pulls away, a deep scowl on her face. He scuttles away from her, against the wall like a frightened crab but his legs aren’t cooperating. He crumbles to the ground, wincing at the impact.

His fingers find the house key in his back pocket and he whips it out. “Please, don’t hurt me!” He brandishes his makeshift weapon, trembling. “I don’t want to hurt you either.”

She makes a grab for his collar, but he rolls out of the way to avoid her fingertips.

“We’re both scared, I know, and we should really just...just drop this.” His words come out shaky.

“Who said anything about me being scared?” She stalks around him, menacing.

His eyes dart from left to right, looking for an opening. Unfortunately, with his mental and physical abilities diminished by the influence of the alcohol, she’s got the upper hand here. “Well, you’re clearly fuelled by adrenaline and so am I. I can tell, from the–“

“You know, when you told me you were a doctor, I was a bit disappointed. Doctors do turn out to be a bit boring at times. And I guess my instincts were right.” She turns up her nose.

“Maybe you should get your teeth checked. Incisors like that can’t be healthy,” He finds himself rambling. _Dammit, Julian, stick to the plan! Escape first, talk later! Or perhaps talk never is more likely._

“They’re helpful when it comes to eating late night snacks, honestly, and you wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m not sure what kind of treats you snack on at night, but I think you should still really get those checked out. I’ve got a dentist friend who’s brilliant, honestly. I could give you her business card if you’d like, and oh–“

He grabs at her ankle, hoping to trip her.

But she’s somehow faster than him, and shoots out to grab his wrist at a lightning-fast speed.

“You’re making me angry, don’t you know that?” She hisses, making a swing at him. This time, her blow lands true on the side of his head, and her sharp fangs are the last thing he sees before he blacks out.

Relieved to not have to put up with any more of his incessant babbling, she drains the unconscious man, leaves his body by the dumpster, and leaves.

Five minutes later, his phone lights up with text messages wishing him a Happy 30th.

A gecko-like creature scampers out from behind the dumpster, pauses for an instant on the man’s shoulder, and then scurries off into the night.

* * *

 

When Julian next awakes, he’s relieved to find that he hasn’t got a hangover.

_Some night that was._ He gets to his feet, dazed and confused. His wallet and phone is still where he left them, tucked away in his pockets. The house key sits in the space between the index and middle fingers of his right hand, now still tightly clenched. Wincing, he wills himself to relax, and when his hand opens, the key falls into a puddle on the ground.

_I should really make a police report. As far as I’m concerned, I haven’t been robbed,_ he muses, flipping through his wallet. _Dark hair, shoulder length, about one point seven meters tall? Wait, no, she was wearing heels._

_And what else do I remember about her?_

_The necklace. With the name Marilyn on it._

_What was her name, anyway?_

_I swear she gave me three different names within the four hours we sat together last night. Marilyn, Kaitlyn, and oh, Deborah. Would that be any help?_

He starts his walk home. His phone lights up with the time 04:10, and the long string of messages.

_Jadzia. Ben. Miles. All wishing me a happy birthday._

_Well, this is a very strange beginning to another year of existence, isn’t it?_

The stroll home is largely uneventful. His apartment is empty, as usual, and a half-full mug of coffee rests on the kitchen counter.

He dumps the remains into the sink, watching the gritty coffee grinds swirl into the drain.

By the time he drops his clothes into the laundry basket and steps into the shower, his mind has gone back to the incident, trying to make sense of the fragmented, hazy memories of last night. _So, starting from the top. I walk into the bar at about nine and she comes up to me and buys me a drink. Several drinks. So by the time I leave the bar at about eleven forty-five I’m completely pissed, and I was going to bring her back to my apartment but then she makes a detour at Ninth Avenue._

His knees buckle, and he slides himself onto the shower floor. The shower stream continues, roaring like a waterfall.

_Something sickly sweet._ No, he hasn’t poured out his soap yet. It has to be something else.

_Her perfume. It smelled like peaches._

_Oh yes, so I’m there, in the alley, breathing in the scent of her perfume as she advances on me and I can barely do anything to stop her–_

His breath catches in his throat. _Alright, continue, you can do this,_ He pushes on.

_And then I bite her in self defence._

He brings up a hand to cup his cheek, where he can still taste the metal of her blood in his mouth. No. That was hours ago. I’m just imagining things.

He blinks, hard. He curls up on himself, reducing the roar of the shower to a muffled choir of noises as he clamps his hands over his ears.

_I tell her not to hurt me. But I don’t know why we’re fighting each other but she makes a swing and knocks me out–_

_Hell, what did she do to me when I was out?_

He feels a flash of heat on the skin on the side of his neck. In his frightened agony, he lowers his right hand from his ear and slaps it onto the spot where it hurts the most. The pain starts as pin-pricks, scraping across his skin until suddenly–

The pain sinks in, penetrating deep into the flesh.

He keels over, whimpering with pain. His chest heaves with quick, urgent breaths and though he feels like he’s drowning in his own thoughts and physically can take no more, his pulse rate tells a different story.

That is, his pulse rate seems to be non-existent.

Another wave of panic follows as his fingers run up and down his arm, searching for the throbbing vein that tells him he’s alive, everything’s okay, he’s going to get through this–

He clutches both hands to his chest, where his heart should be beating.

_No. No no no. This can’t be happening to me. I’m alive and well and everything’s just a bad dream and I will come to terms with that later. No. It’s impossible. They’re just myths and legends–_

_But after that bizarre experience last night I can’t be sure._

_Or I could be impossibly hungover now, and I’m completely unaware of it!_

_Yes, I’ll sleep it off, and come back to it later._

He finishes off his shower as quickly as he can and steps into his bathrobe. Kukalaka hangs out of the pocket near his left hip - he tucks him back in, safe and sound.

He spends a minute contemplating the absence of his image in the bathroom mirror. _Definitely hungover. Julian, it’s time to sleep._

* * *

  
Getting out of bed at noon is more of a challenge than he thought it would be.

The sun shines brightly, mocking him from outside his window.

He crawls from his nest of blankets, and reaches to close the blinds when–

Yelling, he shrinks back, clutching his hand to his body.

_Oh, no. Oh, no._

He opens his eyes, slowly, afraid to see the damage.

Angry red blisters dot the inflamed skin of his hand where it meets the sunlight. The pain is mildly stinging - not enough to call it a mild burn, but it does hurt.

You’ve got to be absolutely kidding me.

“Good afternoon, I’m calling in to inform that I won’t be coming in for my shift today.” He speaks into his phone. “Oh, why? My apartment’s just sprung a gas leak and I’m waiting to get it fixed. The handyman’s only coming down this evening.”

He puts down the phone, and leaves his bedroom. Swatting the dust off his long-unused laptop, he props his feet up and starts his trawl through the internet. The search bar blinks, blank, almost mockingly.

_Well, ‘Am I Turning Into A Vampire’ would be quite a questionable search indeed._

Wincing, he types it in anyway.

* * *

 

That night, he wears a glove to hide his injury as he enjoys a birthday dinner with his friends.

He’s already starting to feel peckish, though he’s been snacking on saltine crackers the whole day.

The pizza doesn’t seem to help much, either. He’s still aware of the chewy texture of the bread and the crisp crunch of the onions, but once he swallows, he doesn’t feel like it’s done anything to relieve his hunger. His stomach grumbles, deeply unsatisfied.

But still he grins and bears it, leaving no sign of last night’s attack show in his expression. It’s convincing enough to fool his friends.

He flees, though, when Miles suggests a group photo, using the same ‘gas leak’ excuse.

He holds in his tears until he gets back to his apartment. Slamming the door behind him, the letters on the kitchen counter swirl as the breeze blows them off the counter and onto the hardwood floor. Ignoring the mess he’s just made, he loosens his tie and throws it off to the side and collapses onto the sofa.

_It’s not my fault that I turned out like this, is it?_

_Maybe I’m starting to regret drinking so much last night._

_No, but it was definitely her fault._

_But what made her do it?_

He’s startled by a soft pattering sound against the ceiling. His eyes jumping open, he finds himself staring at a regnar.

“Hello there, friend,” He says out loud, to the creature. “Since I haven’t had anyone I could trust with what I’m going through, I’m just going to talk to you instead. Promise you won’t tell?” It sounds silly, but it’s relieving to hear the sound of his own voice. He’s lived alone here since his days at med school. On some days, when he completely threw himself into research, he could go days without hearing a single word from himself.

The regnar gives a small squeak, and then scurries away.

“Hey, where are you going?” He gives a defeated sigh. “Well, it looks like not even the regnars want to listen to me talk. Maybe I should go and seek out the cockroaches.”

He hears another squeak, closer this time. The regnar perches on the arm of Julian’s sofa, eyes bright and attentive.

“Hello there, little friend.” He shifts on the sofa, and peers at the regnar. “Would you want to hear my story?”

Another squeak.

“Unfortunately, I’m not going to be able to tell what your little squeaking sounds mean anyway, but I’m going to continue regardless.”

He takes a deep breath. “You see, I think I’ve been turned into a vampire. It sounds almost insane, but I’ve got proof. It’s either proof or a very bad dream.”

The regnar tilts his head, almost curiously. Upon closer inspection, the regnar is marked with a single tear-drop shaped spot between its eyes, its hue a gentle grey-blue.

“Funny, I don’t remember regnars having discolouration of any kind.” He shakes his head. “Never mind. I’ll continue.”

“I don’t show up in mirrors any more. And that includes my phone camera.” He brings out his phone, to show his point. “See? Look at that.” He snaps a picture, and the frame comes away empty and devoid of his image. The regnar sits, poised and very much prepared for the shot.

“It’s weird, see. I can’t come up with a scientific explanation for this.” He sighs, reaching up to lay the back of his right hand across his forehead. “I’ve done my own research, and it’s said that mirrors and photographs and the like capture the essence of the soul. And since I’ve been lacking my own soul lately, I assume that must be the reason I refuse to show up?” He gives a deeper sigh. “Then that raises a whole new batch of questions.”

“If I’ve lost my soul, I should’ve lost my own conscience along with it. And yet I don’t have the urge to go out onto the streets and grab a random passerby to sustain myself on. At least, not yet.” His voice shakes. “In fact, I’m terrified that I’ll end up turning into the monster that turned me.”

His stomach rumbles. “I don’t know how long I can keep on living like this. I’ve never believed in taking away lives. I’ve dedicated my life, and my years of study to saving lives.”

“Oh, you’re still here?” He addresses the regnar, who still patiently remains perched on the arm of the sofa. “You’re a really great listener, aren’t you?” He reaches out, and gently brings his index finger up to brush the top of the regnar’s head. The regnar leans into his touch, arching his little back.

“As a treat, I think I’ll get something for you from my fridge. I don’t have insects and bugs on hand that I could give you, but would cheese make a fitting substitute? I don’t know.” Julian retreats to the kitchen, and returns holding a bite-sized cube of cheese. He sets the block down gently, next to the regnar. Hesitantly, the regnar take a tiny nibble, and then another. Gradually, the entire block disappears.

“And now that you’re happy and full, I suppose you should be running along home now.” He says, heartened. “Oh, and do come back if you’re having any gastrointestinal problems. Uh, or maybe don’t come back. I don’t think I could do much for regnars.”

The regnar gives a happy chirp, and retreats back into the shadows.

* * *

 

The next month passes in a blur. Julian finds himself requesting for the night shift instead, and a week later he makes his first attempt at nicking a bag of blood from the freezer. His first taste of blood is almost uneventful, since he’s been starved for the past week and all he really wants out of it is to fill his stomach and eliminate his hunger pangs.

The texture is almost unpleasant. He assumes that he’ll get used to it eventually.

He stops by the convenience store for the fourth bottle of sunscreen that month. The cashier is starting to give him weird looks every time he walks into the store.

On his trip home, he’s almost at his front door when he places his foot down into something vaguely squishy and hears an agitated squeak.

“Oh, my!” He takes a step back and bends down to pick up the injured regnar. “I’m so, so sorry for that, my dear.” He squints, and sure enough, the tear-drop shaped mark is there, on the regnar’s forehead. “So it’s you again.”

“I’ll bring you in, so that at least you won’t get stepped on.” He assures. Once the door is safely locked, he places the regnar on the kitchen counter. “I’ll get you the cheese again while you wait for me to freshen up.” He lowers himself by the side of the counter until he’s at eye-level with the regnar. “And you had a run-in with the voles, I suppose. You’re all torn up.” He straightens up and stretches, before reaching into the fridge.

“I’ll be right back, alright?” He gives the regnar a final pat on the head, and retreats into the bathroom to wash up.

He gets the biggest shock of his life (well, the biggest shock since he found out that he’d been turned into a undead creature of the night) when he steps out of the shower. He’s sure he’s placed his bathrobe on his bed with Kukalaka tucked into the front pocket. But now the robe is gone, and what’s more surprising is that the entire damn quilt has somehow gone missing. The door to his bedroom hangs open, indicating that someone’s broken in.

Cursing loudly than he should have at this time of the night, he digs for a singlet and shorts in his cabinet before stumbling out of his room in a hurry. The letters, previously placed in a neat stack on the counter, are now scattered all across the floor. The block of cheese is gone, and the front door is open.

“Funny, it’s not a break-in.” He remarks studying the latch. “Someone must’ve gotten out?”

He hears a dragging, scraping sound, muffled by the wall that separates his apartment from the hallway.

Hesitantly, he peers around the doorframe. “Is anyone there?”

A figure, draped in his quilt, limps its way down the hall.

The man turns back, and Julian sees a glimpse of Kulalaka, hanging out of the pocket of the robe the man wears under the quilt.

“I’m terribly sorry, but that quilt and robe does happen to be mine!” He informs, trying his best not to yell.

Julian finds himself staring into the scaly face of a Cardassian man, his forehead obscured by Julian’s _Niners_ baseball cap. _Funny, I don’t think there are any Cardassian residents in this block. Klingons, Bajorans, Vulcans, yes, but I’m not aware of any Cardassians living here._

“Are you alright?” Julian pads his way down the hall, towards the disheveled and confused man. “You don’t look well. And have you seen my regnar? He’s got a broken leg and I’m quite concerned for him.”

“You’re a doctor, not a veterinarian.” The man points out. “What good can you do for the regnar?”

“Not much, but–“ Julian stops himself short. “How did you know I was a doctor? And what are you doing in my bathrobe and my cap?” He reaches the man, and slowly removes the cap from his head.

_A tear-drop shaped indent, in the spot just above his eyes in the middle of his forehead._

“I know it must be late and maybe I’m tired,” Julian starts, about to internally curse himself for this absurd, insane idea. “But do you happen to be my regnar?”

“You’re someone who’s quite well acquainted with the supernatural.” The man gives a wide grin that’s almost unsettling. “So you’d know.”

“Well acquainted? Certainly not.” He glances down at the man’s leg. “But I think you should come in and let me have a look at that.”

“And you certainly need all of this back.” The man says, gesturing to his strange attire. “Maybe I could come in for a cup of tea.”

“That could be arranged,” agrees Julian. “Oh, and how impolite of me. I haven’t asked for your name yet.”

“Oh, Doctor, that’s completely understandable. I must have caused you quite some confusion. It’s Garak, Elim Garak.”

“Elim?” Julian reiterates.

“Honestly, I would prefer if you called me Garak.”

“Mister Garak.”

“No, just plain, simple, Garak.” He gives another wide grin. “Now, where were we?”

“I was about to invite you in for tea, and maybe I could get a look at that leg.”

“Absolutely. Lead the way, Doctor.”

Julian raises an eyebrow. “Are you going to keep calling me that? I assure you, calling me Julian would be just fine.”

“Oh, but that would be a bit too personal.”

“You know, I think we’re going to have a very interesting chat.” Julian extends an arm for Garak to hold on to. “Come, I’ve got some camomile tea in the back somewhere.”

 

 


	2. Present

The fastest way out of a nightmare is a rude awakening.

“Wake up, Julian, wake up,” Garak murmurs, grabbing him by the shoulders. “You’re safe now. It was all merely a dream.”

“But it felt so real,” Julian says, chest heaving. “It was that night again.”

“It must’ve been terrible for you to relieve that experience again.” Garak speaks, slowly and calmly.

“They’re getting more frequent. The flashbacks, I mean.” Julian gives a deep breath and falls back, resting his head on Garak’s chest. “And it’s never the same every time. A new aspect of that incident jumps out at me every time I remember it.” He shivers, his fingers clenching tighter at the sleeve of Garak’s nightshirt.

“It could be possible, that you have some unanswered questions about the incident,” Garak suggests. “A thought that you simply cannot let go of, perhaps?”

“It’s been two years, Garak. And I should’ve gotten over it a long time ago. I keep telling myself, maybe if I just let go and forgive and move on, I’d be much happier. But somehow I can’t bring myself to look at what she’s done to me and say that I forgive her.” Julian laments. “You know, I really was thinking about making a police report, but the whole incident was just so ridiculous. I couldn’t claim she robbed me, since I still had my belongings on me. I couldn’t claim that she’d hurt me, either.”

“And even after I knew what had happened to me, I knew there was definitely no way I could go to the police. Or even to seek medical help,” He adds, as a quiet afterthought. “They wouldn’t believe me.”

“Well, I, for one, am definitely convinced that your story is true.”

“Of course you would, Garak.” says Julian, nuzzling into Garak’s chest. “But I think I still have questions.”

“By all means, do share.”

“Why did she do it, then?” Julian asks. “If she was desperate for money, she would’ve taken my wallet. If she wanted me as a companion, she would’ve contacted me after. I just don’t understand.”

“Maybe she was just looking to feed. Merely that. Perhaps she wasn’t thinking too much about it.”

“Does that mean I’m going to get the urge to feed?” Julian puts out, worriedly. “I mean, feeding by the means of snatching people off the street just to drain them.”

“I suppose, without a soul, you’ll be much more susceptible to making amoral decisions. Most of the vampires I’ve observed hardly have a conscience.” Garak says, reaching over to give Julian a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder. “Though I don’t think I can say the same about you.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Julian snorts. “I should’ve lost my conscience along with my beating heart.”

“Perhaps the compassion you embodied in yourself when you were alive seem to overwhelm the malicious desires of your vampire soul.” Garak suggests. “A bit far-fetched and overly optimistic, I think both of us would agree on that. Or you might consider yourself lucky. I certainly wouldn’t, given that we Cardassians don’t tend to believe in luck.”

“How many other vampires do you know out there? And why would you happen to know other vampires?”

“You’re the only one I know personally.” says Garak, his gaze wandering. “And maybe I used to do a bit of survey work for the Cardassians.”

“Survey work?” Julian’s head perks up. “You were an operative? And now you’ve been spent here to spy on me, haven’t you?”

“My dear, you tend to let your imagination run away with yourself. I would do no such thing, I assure you.”

“And this is how you expect me to trust you.”

“But you still do, nonetheless, yes?”

“I personally can’t care what you did before you met me.” Julian wraps his arms around Garak’s torso. “But I must confess, you do make me feel alive sometimes.”

“Then I must be honoured. Making an undead man feel like he’s back in the glow of life is an impossible task.” Garak retorts. “And how do I accomplish this feat, may I ask?”

“You’ve been a very satisfying partner,” starts Julian, “both in and out of bed.” He pauses, and gives a while for his cheeky tone to set in. “But in all seriousness, I’m honestly glad that I’ve run into someone who understands my secret. Coming home to you is a breath of fresh air.”

“That’s flattering.” Garak pushes the sheets off his lap. “Now, are we going to go back to bed, or do you need more time to calm down?”

“I think I’ll get a camomile tea to calm the nerves.” Julian announces, tearing himself away from Garak and crawls his way off the bed. “Do you want some?”

“Since I find it terribly difficult to fall asleep with you at my side, I shall join you.” Garak says, pushing himself off the side of the bed. “I bought some biscuits today, and they’ll go nicely with the tea.”

* * *

  
Julian nibbles at the edge of a biscuit, and sets it down with a clink on the saucer. “Were you ever disoriented when you first found out about your abilities?”

Garak takes a sip from his teacup. “Not at all. The state does scout out children with such abilities from a young age. I was raised in an environment where such abilities are perceived to be rare, but accepted by society. We are required, though, to keep our abilities secret from those who do not share them.”

“What does Cardassia do with those children?” Julian asks, his eyes wide.

Garak gives a sly smile. “Well, obviously they take the children and put them on a pedestal for all to see.”

Julian rolls his eyes.

“I can see my persuasive methods aren’t working on you.”

“But you’re usually more convincing than that, Garak.” Julian says, getting up from the table and walking over to the vintage record player sitting next to the television. It’d cost him an arm and a leg during his med school days, but it was worth it. Reaching for a record, he brushes the dust from the cover before he pops it snugly into the record player.

“A little night music, my dear?” Garak says, his hands closing around the warm teacup. “I must admit, I am intrigued by your music choices sometimes.”

“Mendelssohn.” Julian announces, placing the needle on the surface of the record. The music crackles to life as the needle skims and skips over the tiny grooves in the record disk. The sound of the orchestra comes forth, a lilting, falling melody in the lower strings against the sustained, soaring airiness of the woodwinds. It feels almost mysterious, muffled in the dark, and the suspense is exemplified further with the crackling of the record in the distance. Each tiny sizzle and pop seems to release bubbles of energy into the air, making the hairs on Julian’s arms stand on end.

“Ah, one of your classical human composers.” Garak catches on, signalling to Julian that their time spent delving into human culture hasn’t been in vain. “Which piece is this?”

“The Hebrides Overture.” Julian sinks back into the sofa, and closes his eyes as he listens to the music lilt and soar. “Mendelssohn was inspired by his excursion to the British Isles. Fingal’s Cave, the basalt sea cave on the island of Staffa.”

“Basalt. The mineral tends to form geometric patterns, doesn’t it?” Garak brings up.

“Huh?” Julian lifts his head slightly from the sofa. “Yes, I think so.”

“Intriguing. Mother Nature, as you call her, does create the most intricate masterpieces sometimes.” Garak says. “But why did you choose this particular record?”

Julian pauses for a while, thinking. “Nostalgia, I suppose.”

“Ever since I’ve been turned, I’ve never felt the warm sun on my skin. And I won’t, ever again.” Julian sighs. “I won’t go out for a walk in midday spring and feel the warm caress of sunlight ever again. I won’t ever go out onto a beach and lie under the sun ever again.”

He shudders. “And I miss it. I miss it very much.”

Garak’s smile drops. “I can see how that can be troubling for you.”

Julian crosses his arms. On the insides of his eyelids he can almost see the picture Mendelssohn wanted to paint - the rolling seas of indigo blue, and their crisp white crests, rolling and surging and roaring. The azure canopy, stretching on as if they had no boundaries, draping over miles and miles of sea. The fluffy, cotton-like cumulus clouds, embroidered into the cerulean tapestry. They drift, as if being dragged along by a thin thread, ever so delicately. If the string were to snap, the clouds would just drift away upwards, weightless. And the cirrus clouds far up above, obscuring parts of the bright blue sky like a fine veil. Oh, how the sun shines - and it gleams even brighter when the rays skip off the droplets that splash off the sides of the boat as it cuts through the water. The wind swirls, like a warm caress through soft hair. The salt spray invigorates, refreshing and cool.

And the basalt rocks, carved in hexagonal formations, stacking up against each other like a cautiously planned jigsaw, forming an opening to the dark enclosure that lays within, untouched by the sun’s rays.

_Mendelssohn was a good painter,_ muses Julian.

“And I’ll never go out in the sun again. All those places I wanted to go, all those beautiful sights I wanted to see – I’ll never see them, Garak, never!” Julian raises his voice, and feels his anger returning. Clamming his hands over his ears, he grimaces as a crushing pain overcomes him, and it almost comes out as an audible wail when he takes another shuddering breath. “All because of her and what she’s done to me!”

Garak rushes to the record player and pulls the needle from the record player, and what comes next is a deafening silence. He hangs back, hesitant to approach.

And Julian doesn’t blame him for it. Right now, it’d be best if Garak left him alone. The pressure builds, and he seethes with rage as he mourns the life he has lost.

“Julian.” Garak’s hands are grasping his forearms now, and Julian thinks he’s going to attempt to pry his hands from his ears but then he gently slides them to his shoulders, tender and reassuring.

It almost works for a second, but once the pressure on Julian’s shoulders increases, he reacts out of pure instinct and fear.

“Leave me alone, Garak!” Julian shouts, and it almost comes out as a roar. Shoving him away, he claws out, his fingernails catching just on the edge of Garak’s jaw. Immediately, Garak jumps back, his hand flying to the fresh scratches.

Julian stares at him for a second, speechless. Slowly, he feels his hands slide down, over his ears and they hang limply in his lap.

“No.” He shakes his head. “I hurt you, Garak. I struck at you and that’s unacceptable of me.”

Garak remains silent, and calmly walks over to the kitchen cabinet where the first-aid kit is.

“Garak, talk to me!” Julian pleads, following him to the kitchen counter. “I’m very sorry, I really am. I struck out at you.” He takes a cotton swab from the first-aid kit, and dips it in the alcohol. “And I shouldn’t have.” He raises the swab, not daring to look Garak in the eye. ”This might hurt.”

Garak hisses under his breath when Julian applies the disinfectant, and deftly places a bandaid over the wounds. “That’s done.” He looks up at Garak through tear-stained eyes. “You don’t have to forgive me. I’m only turning into the monster I was supposed to become.”

Garak brushes away a tear at Julian’s cheekbone with the pad of his thumb.

“I’m so, so, sorry, Garak.”

Garak remains silent, and sits with Julian in the dim, yellow glow of the kitchen light, brushing tears away as they appear.

* * *

  
Dawn has just broken when Julian returns to his apartment. Popping the latest bag of blood in the fridge, he takes a deep breath and looks around. In his other hand is a drink, something he picked up from the convenience store.

_Please, Garak, please talk to me._ The previous few days have passed with almost no verbal words exchanged between them. They sleep facing away from each other, and it’s killing Julian from the inside.

_I’m so, so, sorry._

Julian finds Garak bent over in the bathroom, tinkering with something as he nimbly untangles a wire.

Garak gives a brief glance over his shoulder. “Welcome back, my dear.”

“I got you a bottle of pomelo juice. From the convenience store. Thought you might need a little something after your transformation last night.” Julian dangles the plastic bag from his fingertips. He squints, confused by Garak’s work. “And what on earth is that?”

Garak straightens up and turns, taking the plastic bag from Julian. Cracking open the seal on the bottle, Garak takes a sniff before hesitantly taking a sip. “That’s certainly flavourful, and–awfully sweet!” He makes a face. “I thought your job as a doctor was to advise your patients against consume such sugary beverages.”

“You should treat yourself to something once in a while, Garak.” Julian leans against the doorframe. “Now, won’t you tell me what this is?”

Garak takes another sip. “Ah, and wait.” He connects a few last wires, and then flips a switch. The lamp brightens, and an intense yellow beam shoots forth, causing Garak to shield his eyes as he searches for the switch again. He flips it off again, muttering under his breath. “Well, I’ll still have to make a few adjustments.” He turns a dial connected to the lamp, and when he switches the lamp on again the light comes off mellower, gentler.

“You bought us a heat lamp.” Julian says, glaring at the contraption in the corner of the bathroom. “Garak, the electricity bill!”

“You were the one who instructed me to treat myself once in a while, Julian.” Garak smirks. “Here’s your treat.”

“You filled the bathtub? We don’t even use it! And the lamp being here. That’s an electrical hazard.”

“You haven’t used it since you moved in during your med school days, you told me.” Garak points out. “That means you haven’t had a proper bath in almost ten years. You’re missing out on a plethora of simple pleasures that can result from immersing yourself in a bath of warm water. Oh, and if you don’t splash around too much, I can assure you, there won’t be any mishaps with regards to the electricity.” He gestures to the tub. “Strip off, and get in!”

Julian raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, unless you’re going to get in fully clothed, and I’m not objecting to that either.”

So Julian does as he’s told, and when he lowers himself into the water, he’s pleasantly amused by the effect of the heat lamp. If he closes his eyes and reclines, it’s almost as if the sun is beaming down on him. Immersing himself in the soothing, gentle glow, he lets out a deep breath. With his eyes still closed, Julian feels Garak slide a pair of sunglasses onto his face and then the speaker on the sink counter starts to play a compilation of sea sounds.

Each roll and crash of the waves sends shivers up Julian’s spine, electrifying every nerve and muscle.

“Garak, are you still there?”

“I’m still here, my dear. Why?” Garak responds. “Would you want me to leave?”

“I just want you to stay. Oh, and what did you put in the water? It smells rather delightful.”

“Just some basic bath salts I happened to hear about while I was going about my daily business at my shop. Your friend Jadzia does know a lot about these things.”

“Jadzia makes a living coming up with new formulas for bath salts.” says Julian, lifting his sunglasses. “Oh, Jadzia came to your shop?”

“She was with your other friend. Benjamin. He’s getting married and he needs a new suit.” Garak mentions. “To that other pilot. Kasidy.”

“I got the invitation in the mail a month ago.”

Garak shifts on the bathroom floor and sits cross-legged beside the bathtub. “So, are you going?”

“I was thinking about asking if you could come along too.” Julian says. He slides the sunglasses off his face, and looks closely at Garak. He sits forward, reaching a hand out of the water to run it against Garak’s jaw. “I see that you’ve healed nicely.”

“All thanks to you.”

Julian hesitates. “I’m really sorry, I really am. But I’m just–just terrified. Terrified that I’ll go even further when I’m upset, just like the last time. I don’t want to hurt you again, Garak.”

Garak gives a sigh. “My dear, these things are hard to predict. Your emotional outbursts will just keep getting stronger, as it is the natural progression of things in your situation.”

“I don’t want to lose myself.” Julian’s voice sounds far away, and he blinks hard as he reclines again. “I don’t want to see myself turn into the monster that sired me.”

“Then I won’t let you lose yourself.” Garak says, his voice firm. “If that would make you happy, of course.”

“You’ll do whatever it takes?”

Garak’s breath catches in his throat, and though he doesn’t want to picture the worst, it may very well be inevitable.

“Whatever it takes, my love.”

 

 

 


	3. Future

“Penny for your thoughts, my dear?” Garak pipes up, lazily trawling his fingers through Julian’s hair. “You’re awfully quiet today.”

Julian sighs. He closes the copy of _Time_ that he’s in the midst of reading, and holds it against his chest as he folds his arms. He shifts his head slightly on Garak’s lap to get to a more comfortable position. “I’m just thinking, Garak.”

“About what? I’m honestly quite interested to know what’s going on in that head of yours.”

Julian’s hand drifts upwards, resting at his jaw. He scratches it lightly, and then his hand remains there, cupping it where his jawline meets his neck. “It’s odd, honestly, waking up in the morning. Every time I open my eyes, no matter what time of the day it is, I put my hand up to my face and expect to find stubble there. Except it’s never really there, not since I was turned.”

“In other words, you’re fretting over not needing to shave ever again.” Garak reiterates. “Well, from my perspective, I do believe that not needing to shave does benefit you a great deal. That would considerably reduce the time you spend in the bathroom after you wake up.”

Julian gives a laugh, amused at Garak’s comment. “That’s not really the point. It’s just that I’ll look the same way for all eternity. Or however long I’m going to live. It’s going to be odd in a few decades when I’ll be an old soul trapped in a young man’s body. And the worst part is, I’m never going to see another new image of me again. I won’t show up in mirrors, cameras and the like.”

“What about a painting? Surely there’s nothing supernatural about paintings.” Garak raises a suggestion.

“Well, I’ve never had the honour of being painted by anyone before,” says Julian, shrugging. “I don’t know any artists, for that matter.”

“I think I know someone who would be willing to paint you.” Garak brings up. “Would you like that?”

“It would cost us a great deal of money, wouldn’t it?”

“She’s a friend of mine.” Garak trails his fingers along Julian’s hairline, and then letting them brush against the shell of his ear. “I’m sure I could persuade her into doing this one favour.”

“Seeing myself again would be great. Looking back at old photos of myself doesn’t quite feel right. While I still look exactly the same as I did back then, I’m even more aware of the, the changes that happened. It’s a reminder of the old life I miss and would give anything to go back to.” Julian sighs, picking up his magazine again. “And I’ll never experience the natural process of aging. I’ll never get to experience what everyone else will. I’ll never get to experience what you will, Garak.”

“Indeed, immortality is undoubtedly a blessing and a curse. Though in your case it does come with several other curses that make your life exponentially harder.” Garak nods. “But you, my dear, you’ve been very strong for making it this far.”

“Thank you. But you’re overestimating me and my ability to cope with this life.”

“Certainly not.”

Julian’s gaze meets Garak’s, skeptical.

He gives a knowing smile, but he’s still remembering the night he lashed out at Garak.

* * *

 

The sun peeks through the curtains when Ziyal turns up on their doorstep at four in the afternoon. Smiling widely, Garak greets Ziyal with his palm pressed to hers when she enters the apartment.

_Tora Ziyal. Well, I don’t think she was exactly who I envisioned she’d be. Honestly, from her name, I thought she’d be fully Bajoran. I know a few colleagues with that surname - it’s quite common, actually._

“Oh, Julian,” says Garak, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Come and meet Ziyal. My artist friend.”

“Hello, Ziyal.” Julian extends his hand, and she takes his and gives it a hearty shake. “I can’t express how delighted I am for you to do this.”

“Thank you.” She beams, her bright smile showing. Putting her painting kit down by the door, she turns back to Garak. “I’ve still got the canvas and the easel downstairs in my car. Would you help me to carry it up, Garak?”

“Oh, no problem.” Garak nods. He cranes his neck to give himself a better view of the living room. “But I suppose I would need to go over and shut those curtains properly. We wouldn’t want the sun coming in, would we, Julian?”

“Absolutely not.” Julian gives a light laugh.

When Garak and Ziyal head downstairs, Julian looks down at himself and the outfit he’s prepared for himself. A simple, plaid shirt paired with a pair of dark trousers, along with the polished black shoes he spends every day at work in. Garak hadn’t objected to his choice earlier, but knowing him, he probably would have something to say about it.

He walks over to the kitchen counter, takes a stool and places it in the centre of the room. The stool plants firmly in the soft carpet, the legs of the stool dipping into the deep mauve pattern.

He takes a deep breath as he glances at the door, and waits for Garak and Ziyal’s return.

“We hope we didn’t keep you waiting for too long,” says Ziyal, her hands full with the canvas. “Oh, thank you so much.”

“My pleasure.” Garak sets the canvas down, and rushes to Julian’s side. Reaching up, he fixes Julian’s collar. “My dear, you should really unbutton that top button. If you’re going to be in this for a few hours, I’m worried that you might end up choking.”

“You’re just doing this to get a good view of my collarbone, aren’t you?” Julian pokes. “Alright, maybe you do have a point.”

“It would be optimal, of course, if you could sit through this session without feeling too terribly uncomfortable.”

“Wait.” Ziyal speaks up, peeking out from behind the canvas. “You two look very good together. I’m honestly tempted to paint you both. It would make a very charming portrait. Please, Garak?”

“Ziyal,” Garak says, crossing his arms, “But it would take you twice the time to paint!”

“And I wouldn’t mind. It would make good practice.” Ziyal says, studying the pair closely.

“You’re going to charge me extra for this.” protests Garak.

“I’ll charge you just a bit more.”

Julian straightens up. “How much?”

“We can decide on the price later.” answers Garak, clasping his hands.

Ziyal gives a hum in agreement. “Now, stay still, the both of you.” She squints, and then gets up from her chair. “No, that’s not quite right.” She moves around them, making adjustments to limb position and body angle.

“A hand on his shoulder would be nice, wouldn’t it?” Ziyal muses.

“That’s quite an awfully intimate suggestion, you and I both know that.” Garak says, raising an ocular ridge.

“Only intimate among Cardassians,” points out Ziyal, thumbing her chin. “Not quite among other species.”

“Well, who are we to challenge your artistic direction?” Julian asks, addressing Ziyal. “You’re the artist, after all.”

“Oh, yes.” Garak readily agrees. “We shouldn’t argue with your expert decisions regarding the composition of portraits.” He places his hand lightly on the edge of Julian’s shoulder, his fingers spreading over the joint. “Would this do?”

Ziyal takes a step back, checking for the overall picture. “That’s perfect.” She steps backwards to her canvas, careful not to trip over the end of the carpet. “I’ll make a sketch first. That way, I can remember how my planned composition for the portrait.”

“Go ahead.” Julian watches Ziyal as she takes a pencil from the pocket of her paint-splattered overalls and begins her work on a fresh sheet of drawing block. Her brow creased deep in concentration, her pencil flies over the paper as she sketches. The faint scratching of the graphite on paper is soothing – like music to Julian’s ears. Garak stands behind him, swaying ever so slightly on his feet. His hand, resting gently against the curve of Julian’s shoulder, feels almost warm if he uses his imagination enough.

_Scritch, scritch, scratch._ Ziyal’s hair falls over her face in strands as she leans over her work, ever so occasionally looking up to check that she’s gotten the details in.

If falling asleep with your eyes open was possible, Julian knows he must’ve achieved it because he’s completely lost track of time when Ziyal calls for a break.

“Well, I’ve got most of the details in, so when I come around next week, I should be able to place you two into the same position.” Ziyal notes, tying her hair back into a neat ponytail.

“Oh, next week?” inquires Julian, yawning.

“I certainly wouldn’t continue today. Seeing as the two of you are more than a little sleepy today.” advises Ziyal. “It’s perfectly normal for art models to fall asleep in the middle of a session. It’s happened before.”

“So that would be next week, same time, then.” Garak confirms, and then turns back to glance at Julian, who’s starting to nod off on the sofa. His head nods forward like the swinging pendulum of a grandfather clock and then jerks up again when he reminds himself that _no, Ziyal hasn’t left, it would be rather impolite to fall asleep right in front of her._

“He’s just had a particularly trying shift this morning,” comments Garak. “Now, would you like my help in bringing your things downstairs?”

* * *

Progress on the portrait happens slowly. Every time Ziyal comes over for another session, another patch of colour appears on the canvas. After each session, Julian stares contemplatively at the incomplete portrait, observing as each new jigsaw piece gets added to the puzzle. It feels like fitting parts of his (after) life together, coming to terms with each new addition to the big picture. Eventually, it clicks together in his head, bit by bit.

Of course, there are also the downsides of getting a portrait done. For one, the periods of sitting there and doing absolutely nothing can be rather daunting at times. Sometimes, Julian loses track of his muscles and he wonders if he can still feel his limbs. Of course, it must be even harder for Garak, who has to stay on his feet.

“Oh, I don’t think I can feel my legs any more,” Garak groans, one night following a painting session. “Occasionally, I do wish that standing up were more effortless.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so crabby.” observes Julian. “I’ll get you some of that tension relieving muscle rub.”

Garak heaves a sigh of relief. “Finally, some respite from this overbearing pain.”

“As much as you won’t want to admit it, your body has limits somewhere.” Julian nods, sheepishly. “You’ll be finding you’ll have more problems as you age.”

“I’m completely and unashamedly aware of it, given the Cardassian cultural attitudes regarding the slow stroll through one’s twilight years.”

“You regard it as something regal.” says Julian. He takes the bottle, and squeezes some of the paste onto the palm of his hand. It smells strongly of menthol. “And I would agree with that. I’ve never seen you look better.”

He starts by rubbing the paste into Garak’s ankle, and then moving upwards. His hand slips in snugly between the space between Garak’s calves and the cloth of Garak’s pants. “Must be the new gray hairs,” suggests Julian, continuing their conversation. “They make you look more refined.”

“That’s very flattering of you.”

“I wonder how I’d look with grey hair.” Julian muses, the corners of his mouth turning slightly downwards in a frown. “But I’ll never get to see it for myself.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the way you look now,” says Garak. “And I guarantee you, I’ll agree with that statement for as long as you’re still around.”

“It’s daunting, thinking about the future. So many unknowns. And I know I’ll outlive you and I’ll have to go on and on and on and on until…” Julian’s voice trails off. “I don’t know.”

Julian finishes the process of massaging the salve into Garak’s legs and heads to the kitchen sink to wash his hands clean of the strong-smelling paste. His stomach growls - he hasn’t had any food in several days, since there’s always been someone in the freezer where the blood bags are kept when Julian steals into the room to snatch up a meal.

_Tomorrow_ , he says to himself, determined.

* * *

 

**Garak.**

The phone vibrates with a buzz in Garak’s pocket as he scores a mark on the cloth with a piece of white chalk. A few more buzzes follow.

**It’s too hard. I’m not sure how much longer I can restrain myself for.**

**I need you here.**

Garak reads through the messages with a tilt of his head. Hurriedly, he moves like a whirlwind as he scribbles a note on a post-it and closes up the blinds of his shop. He attaches the post-it to the surface of the blind, informing prospective customers that he’s out for the moment.

He meets Julian in the fire emergency stairwell, on the second floor. Julian, shivering, clasps his arms to himself as he sits on the steps. He rocks ever so slightly back and forth, and Garak hears the hint of a hiss escape his lips – his love is in pain, and Garak knows that he desperately has to do something abou it.

Garak’s heart drops in his chest when he approaches Julian.

“I’m just so terribly hungry. But sneaking in to the freezer’s been getting harder and harder lately.” says Julian, not looking up. “I was seriously considering taking one of my nurses out here and draining them.”

His voice wavers, conflicting. “And I know that’s not the way I should be going about things. But I’m just so...so hungry.”

“My dear.” Garak puts a comforting hand on Julian’s shoulder. “I’m sure there are other ways to sustain yourself.”

Julian looks up at Garak through the mess of hair that falls over his face. His hands clench, his fingernails making red indents in the shape of tiny moons as they dig into his flesh. “Garak, I don’t want you to–“

“Take me, then.” Garak reaches up to unbutton the top button of his shirt, and pushes the fabric aside to reveal the side of his neck. The flint-grey skin glows almost a ghostly green in the dim light of the stairwell. “Feed on me.”

“Garak, no, if I start to drink I’ll drain you completely for sure.” Julian protests. “I can’t lose you.”

“You’ve got enough self-restraint in yourself to hold out this far.” Garak counters.

Julian gulps. The temptation to give in to Garak’s offer is strong – and he finds his fingers reaching up to probe, to search for tender flesh where the veins and arteries are pulsing underneath.

“That’s it, my dear,” encourages Garak, pulling Julian closer to him. “Don’t worry too much about me.”

“Garak, _please–_ “ Julian laments, his fingertips skimming the bottom of a scaly ridge. “There has to be another way.”

“You’ve been going days without food, and now is the time to replenish yourself.” Garak brings a hand to a spot at the base of Julian’s neck, and drags him even closer. Julian’s lips brush against his skin, and Garak can feel his heavy breathing and he knows that _yes, this must be working, and soon Julian will be back to his usual self again._ Garak holds his breath, waiting for the moment where Julian’s fangs will sink into his flesh and drain him _but–_

That moment never comes. Instead, Julian drags himself away from the tempting, awaiting flesh, and presses his nose into the edge of Garak’s shoulder instead.

“I can’t do it,” says Julian, weeping against Garak’s shoulder. “I can’t hurt you. And don’t make me try again, Garak–!” He falls back against Garak. Strong arms envelop him, and the gesture makes him cry even harder.

“I don’t want to be dependent on you, Garak. Not like this. I don’t deserve you. And why? Why have you chosen to stay with me?”

“I can’t give you a reason, Julian. The heart works in strange ways sometimes.”

* * *

 

Garak provides one bag of blood every three months, voluntarily.

Julian watches the light drip, drip, drip of the crimson fluid as it slowly fills up the bag, and once the process is done, he’s sure to give Garak a lot of extra care afterwards.

One night, they sit on the roof of the apartment block on a picnic mat with a bottle of orange juice and a small mug of blood. The autumn wind blows past, sending leaves of orange and red and brown swirling up, up into the air.

“A toast to us,” announces Julian, and clinks his mug against Garak’s glass. He takes the first sip of blood he’s had in days–and he’s happily satisfied when he’s filled up. “I can’t thank you enough, Garak.”

“Anything it takes, you said. Anything it takes.” Garak recalls. “In your human culture, it would be considered honourable to sacrifice yourself for a loved one.”

“I can’t expect you to conform to my cultural standards,” chuckles Julian, laying down on the mat.

“Do I ever conform to anything, my dear?” Garak retorts, before laying down himself. Julian wriggles closer, and slips his hand into Garak’s, interlacing their fingers.

“Those stars, up there.” marvels Julian. “I wonder how many I’ll get to visit in the future.”

“That is a possibility, indeed.” Garak suggests. “I’m sure space travel will improve by leaps and bounds in the near future. And what’s more, with your potential life span being possibly infinite, you’ll have plenty of time to visit all the places you want to visit.”

“Honestly, I’ve been thinking about places which are more achievable presently.” He turns on his side to face Garak. “Have you ever heard about bioluminescent plankton?”

“Microorganisms that light up at night, and they make a mesmerising sight as they illuminate the beach. I’ve heard that if you swim in the shallows where the plankton resides, you’ll leave a trail of glowing plankton. Or you might light up, giving the effect of looking like a skeleton.”

“Yes.” Julian says, smiling. “It would be a perfect opportunity to see the sea again.”

“Then we must go there one day, my dear.” Garak says, his free hand reaching up to stroke the side of Julian’s face. “If we could find a plausible way for you to sustain yourself during such a trip.”

“Ah, what a let down.” Julian sighs. “But we’ll get there one day, won’t we?”

He looks into Garak’s bright, blue eyes, and he wonders how they would look with the splendid, radiant bioluminescent plankton reflected in them.

* * *

 

“And I’m finished.” Ziyal says, putting down her brush and stepping back to admire her work. “You two should come around and see.”

“Oh, Ziyal, it’s marvellous!” exclaims Garak, his face lighting up. “You capture Julian’s youthful charm so well.”

Julian’s gaze is trained on the floor until he steps around the side of the canvas, and then he forces himself to look up to admire Ziyal’s masterpiece.

He hears Garak press a stack of cash into Ziyal’s hand when his back is turned, but he refuses to let himself turn around. _What matters isn’t it’s monetary worth. What matters is that this is the first new image of me created in the last decade and it should mean something to me._

Ziyal has painted them meticulously, capturing every tiny detail and wrinkle and scale. Garak, with a hand placed gently on his shoulder, looks down on him with a tender, loving gaze that makes something inside him spread with joy. The dark, earthy colours of Garak’s favourite jacket contrast perfectly against the brightly coloured stripes running through the deep blue dye of his plaid shirt. The light falls perfectly on his face, accentuating his features.

_There’s something about the eyes. Always the eyes._  
  
Eyes are commonly known as windows to the soul, and Ziyal paints them so, so well. The shade of hazel is almost perfect. Ziyal must’ve considered the colour a dozen times, carefully mulling over each shade and shadow and highlight. When he looks at his image, it’s almost as if he could see himself in a mirror again. The image is so crisp, so clear, so real – Ziyal’s result comes off almost like a photograph, except the difference is that it has far more soul than a photograph. There’s almost a glimmer, a spark, and when he takes in his proud smile and the fact that his face is turned slightly upwards, he finds that he looks almost optimistic. Almost joyful, even.

He looks towards the future, intrigued by all the infinite possibilities that exist for him to explore.


End file.
